


La Femme en Rouge

by Hermaline75



Series: Five for Edith/Lucille [4]
Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Assassins & Hitmen, F/F, Historical, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 17:40:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22467271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hermaline75/pseuds/Hermaline75
Summary: Edith knows that the spate of deaths running through her home town are connected.She just has to prove it. And prove that the mysterious woman in red seen around all the victims has something to do with it.
Relationships: Edith Cushing/Lucille Sharpe
Series: Five for Edith/Lucille [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1598167
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	La Femme en Rouge

**Author's Note:**

> Five more random tropes to cobble a story out of:
> 
> 1\. Magic Feather  
> 2\. Clipboard of Authority  
> 3\. Cape Snag  
> 4\. Soft Water  
> 5\. Police Are Useless

"But you don't understand. I saw her."

"You saw someone, Miss Cushing. You didn't see _her._ "

It was the way they said the pronoun. You didn't have to use the name for everyone to know who you meant, and there were plenty of them to choose from. The witch. The woman in red. The scarlet mirror.

They said she was a ghost. A phantom. Not real. They also said that to see her meant death. There'd been stories for decades.

But Edith knew. This was no shade, not in the last few weeks. This was a woman of flesh and blood and when she killed it was because she had chosen to. These were not accidents as everyone claimed.

Of course, she didn't exactly have evidence to back up her theories, but that would come, eventually. When she caught her.

"At least five men are dead and most of them reported seeing the woman in red," she insisted. "This is a serial assassin. It must be."

The sheriff and deputy exchanged a glance, as if she wouldn't notice despite standing right in front of them.

"It's just a folk tale. It's at least a hundred years old. The families are saying what they want to be true after unfortunate accidents, trying to make sense of a terrible event."

"But what if it is true? What if it's murder?"

She could see them rolling their eyes, the supposed law keepers who couldn't see something so obvious. And she knew what they were thinking, too. _Poor mad Edith, never the same after her mother died, believing in ghosts..._

Well, ghosts did not poison or drown or stab. People did that. And therefore the red woman was a person, a real one.

"I saw her," she repeated. "I saw her outside Mr Blackwood's house moments after he died. She slipped into the crowd."

"And what exactly were you doing there, Miss Cushing?"

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, feeling a headache coming on.

"I knew he had seen her and so I was circling the building, waiting for her to reveal herself. And she did."

The sheriff sat back in his chair, shaking his head.

"Well, unfortunately we cannot arrest every woman who dares to own a red dress just on your say so. Besides, it's a very striking color for a killer to choose, isn't it? Not exactly subtle."

"She's hiding in plain sight. She must know the old story. She's toying with her victims."

It seemed so clear to her and yet they looked at her with pity in her eyes.

"Go home, Miss Cushing. Get some sleep. You saw a terrible thing today. A terrible accident."

Yes, she had, though she refused to believe it was an accident at all. She'd been about to follow the red dress when she'd heard the scream, pushing through the door and running up the stairs to Mr Blackwood's office to find a horrified maid and the man himself dead on the floor with rather a lot of blood seeping into his carpet.

A fall? Maybe. That seemed to be what they wanted to believe. But Edith was sure it was murder.

She made her way home, her hand gravitating to the old locket her mother gave her, as it often did. Silver, for protection, she'd said.

Protection from what, she wasn't quite sure, but it made her feel better all the same.

Her father popped his head out of his office, looking rather tired and strained.

"I've just heard the news," he said. "That you saw the body. Dreadful business."

"Yes," Edith agreed, taking off her cape and sorting through the post. "Terrible."

"They say it was an accident."

"I saw it. No accident."

"And how can you be so sure?"

There was one letter for her, a small yellowish envelope, neat handwriting on the address.

"Because Mr Blackford used a stick. Not as fashion, but to help support his weight. Bad knee. And it was on the wrong side of the desk."

"All the more reason for him to have fallen. Maybe using the bookcase to support his weight, took a bit of a tumble..."

"It just doesn't ring true for me."

He nodded, grim.

"Just be careful out there," he said. "There are dangerous people about."

"I know. That's who I'm trying to stop."

He indulged her certainties in a way only a parental figure could. Probably he also thought she was a few pages short of a book, but she was so, so sure.

She took the letter through to the parlour, opening it with a degree of trepidation. Word had got around of her belief in the red woman after the third victim and now she was receiving a blend of mocking and troubling letters, occasionally interrupted by an actual lead.

Providence was smiling on her, it seemed. This was a note from a lady.

_Dear Miss Cushing,_

_Apologies for the brevity of this letter. My time before the evening post is short and I do not want my writing to you to be noticed._

_I hear you are noting sightings of the so-called woman in red and her connections to some recent deaths. It makes me feel almost sick to think of it, but I believe my own husband may have seen her. He is truly not himself these last days, jumping at shadows and positively terrified of anything bearing that color._

_He refuses to talk to me of it. If you could find some way to monitor him, discreetly, of course, his name is Mr Alfred Moorthwaite, in the offices of Moorthwaite and Kipling..._

Hmm. It could be nothing. But it could be something. She'd have to go and find out.

Fortunately, she'd learned some time ago that with the right tone and equipment, women of her standing could generally get anywhere they wanted.

***

"Excuse me, the ladies of Buffalo are collecting charitable donations for local orphans, might I take your name for our mailing list?"

It wasn't truly a lie. She could very easily give the list to a real organization. It was mainly a reason to be loitering on the street, watching everyone come and go.

It was a tricky building. Part of a block, not easy to patrol around. She hoped that meant it was difficult to get in at the back, that there would be walled yards or somesuch not easily traversed.

She had seen Mr Moorthwaite when he arrived, a ruddy-faced man, on the thin side but in an imposing way. It was strange to see a man like that look furtively about himself, nervous.

Anyone would think he was up to something.

Edith maintained a careful watch for much of the day, beginning to despair a little. Maybe it was nothing. A mistake. A husband with an unrelated guilty conscience. And she hadn't had lunch and it was cold.

But then she saw it. A flash of red through the crowd, a figure in a dark cloak but wearing scarlet beneath. Could just be coincidence, but...

There was no time for wondering. Edith bounded into the crowd, cursing her lack of height, trying to apologize as she almost shoved people out of her way.

The figure turned down an alleyway near the end of the road and was almost out of sight by the time Edith reached it, having to pick up her skirt and run properly.

She rounded the corner at speed, bumping into a man and almost bouncing backwards onto the cobbles, scrambling round him...

And finding nothing. No one.

Damn. Damn! She'd been so close!

It was then that she was pulled into a building, a gloved hand over her mouth, a heavy door banging shut behind her, finding herself pushed face first against a wall. The patterned paper swirled in her vision, so close to her eyes.

"Why are you following me?" a woman asked behind her, pinning her in place.

Edith panted slightly, terrified. And yet...

"I wanted to ask you about the deaths of William Pemberton, James Brookes, Samuel MacKenzie, John Linton and Christopher Blackwood."

A brief pause, almost an air of surprise.

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with any of those gentlemen."

Oh, but she was. Edith knew it, she'd been right the whole time.

"I just want to know why," she said. "I just want to understand."

"Don't meddle in things that don't concern you, kitten. You know what curiosity does to cats. And I doubt you have nine lives to fall back on."

She pressed close against Edith's back, in her peripheral vision as vague shapes; a pale face, red lips, dark hood.

"I'm going to leave now. And if you follow me again, I will be forced to do something I'll regret."

She retreated through the house, away from the entrance, Edith stumbling back and immediately giving chase. She wasn't even thinking, just doing.

"What's your interest in Alfread Moorthwaite?" she called.

At the back door, the woman turned, a knife glinting in her hand. Edith froze, trapped, staring.

The woman in red. She was beautiful. And that probably shouldn't be the first thought in her mind, but it was. Striking eyes, high cheekbones, dark hair escaping from her hood.

And a scar. There was a scar above her lip, not particularly obvious but Edith found her eye drawn to it anyway.

"I mean you no harm," the woman said. "But you leave me no choice."

Edith felt like the world slowed down. She saw the knife move, being thrown, flying towards her. Not end over end, but straight and true, like an arrow.

She tried to duck.

It thudded into the doorframe, taking a bit of her cape with it, attaching her firmly in place, the ties catching around her neck, tangling in the chain of her locket.

The woman fled, leaving her to struggle and eventually free herself, having to plant her foot against the wood to pull the knife out. It really was firmly embedded.

And it was evidence, too. A real object, owned by a real woman.

She checked the house for other clues, but it seemed abandoned, no sign of habitation. The doors looked to have been forced. What a useful thing, being able to duck into apparently ordinary buildings without anyone being any the wiser.

The red woman clearly did her research. How long had she been planning this spree? And why?

And what could be done to protect Alfred Moorthwaithe?

***

Edith strode into the police station and placed the knife down on the sheriff's desk.

He looked up at her, unimpressed.

"Yes, Miss Cushing. How might I be of assistance?"

"This knife was thrown at me by a woman in red today. Alfred Moorthwaite is in grave danger and requires round-the-clock police protection."

He sighed heavily, rubbing his eyes.

"It's just a knife. I know you're trying to help by fabricating evidence, but they really were just accidents."

She tugged round her cape, showing the tear.

"This was not an accident."

"Alright. If she's as unstoppable as you claim, how come she missed?"

Edith's hand flew to her locket. It was perhaps too ridiculous to suggest that her mother had protected her from beyond the grave.

"Maybe she didn't want to kill me," she said instead. "I'm not part of... whatever it is. But these men are, there must be a connection..."

"Go home, Edith. And take that with you."

She hid her fury, picking up the knife and tucking it into her bag. It was clearly not a proper knife. Too small for kitchen work. Specially made as a weapon. Like a penknife, but a lot sharper.

Her anger had cooled somewhat by the time she got home, already planning which scrap of fabric she'd use for patching her cape, a little surprised to find her father sitting in the parlour.

"I'd expected you to be working," she said.

"I was. But I can't stop wondering if there's something in your theories. I've gathered as much as I can about the business interests of the dead men."

"Any connection?" Edith asked.

"Not yet. Other than being rich and from Buffalo, I've not found anything."

Hmm.

"Thank you anyway. That's really helpful."

She pored over his research for most of the evening. But he was right. There was so little connection. Of course, they cropped up at the same fundraisers and events from time to time, as expected, but hardly ever all of them together.

In fact, the only picture with all of them was for the election of the mayor. It wasn't exactly a damning conspiracy.

Then again, Moorthwaite had seemed so jumpy...

Eventually, she had to go to bed, exhausted. She'd only just remembered to eat something for dinner. Cape repairs would have to wait for the morning.

It was strange to wake in the night and not be sure why. Edith opened her eyes in the darkness, faint light from the gas lamp outside slipping through her curtains.

Curtains which were billowing gently in the breeze. Which was impossible because her windows should definitely be closed.

Heart seizing, she sat up in a panic, catching a figure knelt down at her drawers, rummaging through them.

Should she scream? Surely that would put her father in danger. And besides, surely she'd already be dead if that was the plan.

"How did you find me?" she hissed instead.

A slight pause, the woman standing up.

"You're not the only one who can follow people. I left something with you. I'd rather like it back, it I could. It was expensive."

Edith hesitated, hand at her own throat. She was safe. This was her home.

"I'll give it to you if you answer my questions," she said, bolder than she necessarily felt.

The figure crossed the room, moving into the light, climbing onto Edith's bed and obliging her to scramble backwards.

"How about you give me something," she said. "And then I answer your questions?"

"What?"

The woman crawled forward, terrifyingly close, her hand moving to Edith's neck.

"Not the locket," Edith said urgently. "Please, my mother gave it to me."

"I don't want anything... material."

Whatever she'd been expecting, it wasn't for the woman in red to pull her close and place the softest, most delicate kiss upon her lips.

Huh.

This wasn't something that actually happened. Mysterious, ghostly killers did not sneak into intrepid young women's bedrooms and try to seduce them in the night. That was not something that really happened.

And yet...

And yet here she was, letting the woman in red kiss her, touch her, sliding hands under her blankets to reach her bare skin.

It felt like a dream. A very realistic dream. And maybe that was why Edith kissed back, maybe that was why she pushed the blankets out of the way and pulled her closer.

It had always been a strange thing for her that she felt so little attraction towards men. Any desire she felt was for women. She'd come to terms with her admiration never being returned.

Obviously, she'd prefer for that interest not to come from a murderer, but maybe you couldn't have everything.

"You're very confident, kitten," the woman said, grinning as she pulled back and Edith tried to chase her lips.

"I don't want to be at a disadvantage."

A finger under her chin, tilting her face upwards.

"Anyone would think you were not here under duress at all."

Was she? Or did she secretly rather want this?

She knew the truth but she'd be damned if she'd say it out loud. No, instead she lunged forward, feeling laughter against her mouth.

A thigh between her legs, pressure she tried to match though the layers of fabric impeded her somewhat.

She wasn't the only one affected though. The woman was tugging at her own skirts, pulling them out of the way, letting out a sound of pure satisfaction as she ground down against Edith's flesh.

It was good, but somehow not enough. She wanted more, something she couldn't articulate, just a little...

"Have you ever heard of a death pool?"

Words? Words were difficult right now...

"What? No."

"It's a... Ah, a simple idea. A bet on your own life. Everyone agrees to leave their money to the last man standing."

She was using her hand now, under her skirts, Edith trying to make her brain work as she followed suit.

"Someone got impatient..." she murmured. "They're... Mm! They're wiping out the others."

"And that's why they must look like accidents."

"Or the work of a ghost."

She was growing close now, inevitably, both of them panting at each other, even feeling the heat of her breath until finally she climaxed, sighing it out.

The woman in red wasn't far behind her, kissing her, the two of them so, so close to one another, gazing into each other's eyes.

"I can't let you kill Moorthwaite," Edith said softly.

"You can try to stop me if you want. It will be fun. Now, where's my knife?"

For a moment, Edith considered denying it. After all, they'd exchanged kisses for questions, not property. But maybe she knew when not to try her luck.

"It's in the bag on the dressing table."

The woman moved like a big cat, all stealth and speed, retrieving her weapon.

"I suppose I'll see you soon, then," she said. "Try not to get hurt."

She climbed out of the window. Edith wasn't sure how, but she was gone by the time she looked out. Like she'd just vanished.

Right. There was nothing else for it. She was going to have to have Alfred Moorthwaite arrested for his own safety.

***

He didn't want to go quietly. He insisted he knew nothing about a death pool, but he was obviously lying. No one innocent looked that shifty. And once Edith had explained - mainly to his furious wife - that it might be the only way to save him, he came around.

Of course, that was the moment when Edith saw a flash of red in the reflection of their carriage clock, heard the footsteps, turning and giving chase even as Mrs Moorthwaite called out in alarm.

Edith took the stairs two at a time, ahead of the police, bounding into the study. They had her now, surely. The house was built upon a cliff. Only the unforgiving sea lay beneath.

"Stop!" she yelled as she entered the room. "It doesn't have to be this way."

The woman in red watched her approach, smiling, laughing almost.

"I'm afraid it does, kitten. I've been in cages. They don't suit me."

Edith crept closer, just hoping to get a grip on her, hearing other people arriving behind her, their shock and surprise.

"Please," she said more quietly. "Please don't."

It was a battle of wits. The closer she got, the wider the smile, the closer to the open window. Like she had a plan. But what plan? How could she possibly...?

Close enough to touch, nearly, Edith made a lunge. The woman easily stepped to the left and swung her leg out onto the sill, avoiding her, starting to pull backwards into empty space.

"No!"

She wasn't sure how, in the struggle, her locket ended up gripped in the woman's hand, the delicate chain breaking, leaving a weal at the back of her neck.

And she was gone. Even looking out into the horrible churning water beneath the house revealed no glimpse of red, no sign of anyone at all.

Gone. Just gone.

Edith left the Moorthwaite's house in a daze. She hadn't taken in any of the police's words. And husband and wife clearly needed to have words about how readily he was willing to potentially leave her destitute without her knowledge.

And Edith needed to go home to her father, shaken, in need of warmed milk and a seat by the fire. She couldn't sleep. She sat awake, alone by the embers, hearing the whispering sound as something came through the letter box.

She crept through, blanket wrapped about her shoulders, finding a small envelope on the mat.

An envelope that clinked slightly when she picked it up.

Her locket fell out into her hand.

_Apologies for the damage. Take care of yourself._

Despite all her logic and rationality, Edith clutched the silver and wondered.

***

Years later, when a few other men had died of apparently natural causes, a great deal of money passed through complicated inheritance laws to a man in England.

Edith had never been able to convince anyone other than her father of the existence of the death pool, especially with an embolded Alfred Moorthwaite denying everything. After all, he kept saying, even if there had been a woman in red, surely no one could survive that fall.

If only he was still alive to look at the image in the newspaper of Lady Lucille Sharpe standing next to her brother and realize that he was wrong.


End file.
